


Daemones Non Cogi Per Artes Magicas

by yoshitakamine



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshitakamine/pseuds/yoshitakamine
Summary: ..."Demons cannot be compelled by the magic arts" A story about superstitions, appearances and essences and the occult.Nero lives on the fringes of a medieval society due to his appearance, often called a demon, fairie creature, both revered and condemned by those around him. The Baron who owns the land he works on has a similarly mysterious past and an even more mysterious presence or absence from fiefdom matters. The arrival of a stranger by the name of V sets events in motion neither of them could have forseen. (Medieval AU for DmC5 and the general DmC Universe)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Grimoire

Folk stories are fiction, tall tales of local gossiping dowagers and impressionable youngsters. Sometimes though, a story comes along that’s left such a deep mark in a place’s history, there is no denying the truth behind it.

The young boy with ashen hair and eyes as clear as the day sky is one such example. From the day he was brought to this unfortunate part of the land, all knew he was different. A small babe, head covered in tousled tufts of gray like he was far far older than he looked, like the offspring of an ancient deity of sorts. Some actually believed this, and steered clear of the boy out of fear, thinking he was some sort of daemon sent by the Devil to punish them. Others saw the boy as a blessing. The old couple who took him in, desperate after realizing their infertility was incurable, despite their many donations to the local Church, called him Nero when he arrived on the blackest nights of the season. They were destined to nurture him so far before misfortune struck. They both took their last breath bedridden and plague stricken, one after the other, leaving the boy an orphan on his 18th year. Some blamed him for their deaths: his unknown origins and his appearance hid something sinister and whatever it was it had finally awakened.

After the death of his parents, like every orphan of his age, Nero started working for the local Church, responsible for the tithe barn and the granary. His labor was indispensable, so whatever his manners and fiery demeanor lacked, the parish priest was willing, but begrudgingly, to a turn a blind eye to.

His eyes had been focused on the mill, a small patch of his cheek dusted with flour, before the priest came in.

“Hard at work?” his expression seemed genuine, but his tone hid a sneer Nero was all too familiar with.

“If you hadn’t sent away the last two mill workers, I wouldn’t have to be here.”

There it was. The tone of defiance the priest loathed. Oftentimes Nero wondered what would have happened to him if it wasn’t for his uncle’s hefty monthly “contribution” to the Church’s bursary.

“Well if only they hadn’t stolen from us…”

“They had a family to feed. Not everyone has the luxury to die alone and bitter.”

He enjoyed pushing the priest’s buttons just as much as the priest enjoyed making him slave away on menial tasks. In some ways they made quite a sadistic pair, the two of them. Nero was a marked man anywhere outside the confines of this small village because of superstitious folklore and the priest was in dire need of donations and labor. They both stood between the devil and the blue sea.

“How’s your dear uncle? We haven’t heard from him in a month now.”

His feigned worry made Nero wince. It was obvious he wasn’t concerned about the man’s safety but the contents of his pockets. If anything, it even sounded like a honeyed threat. Longer he takes to deliver some kind of coin, the quicker Nero would be out the door and out in the fields, threshing wheat until his body gave out from hunger or thirst, whichever came first.

“Yeah well, he’s been busy lately. The baron is raising some kind of army, or so I heard.”

“Yes, indeed. He might call for young boys too.” Nero’s eyes furrowed at that, pushing himself up from the millstone.

“Frankly I don’t know what your problem is with me, but I’m not going to stick around enough to find out. I’ll be out your hair before you know it. _Trust me_.”

“Oh please, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the rumors.”

Of course, he had. But he trusted people not to take truth in superstitious old wives’ tales.

“So is that it? You believe I’m some kinda demon? Sent here to wreak havoc to the village and plunge the world into chaos?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. A charlatan like you would not be capable of that. At best you’re a nuisance. At worst you’re giving us a bad name to other fiefs of the kingdom” he paused, dusting off the flour particles stuck on his shirt “I merely wanted to remind you you’re an outsider. God knows how you got here. I’m not even why His Grace allows you to exist.”

“So much for Christian tolerance and piety huh.”

Nero’s cheek, the one not dusted with flour, was met with the back of a palm. He did not react, telling himself he deserved that one, but his fist was curled so tightly on his weathered linen pants the sweat from his palm left a damp stain. He should’ve been used to this sort of aggression. The looks, the crucifixes slammed on the back of his head to ward off whatever demon was supposedly residing within him. But he hadn’t. If anything, their intolerance made him angrier, the blood in his veins boiling to a rage he could not always keep at bay. 

“Do not even dare retaliate or else I will have you thrown out.” The priest left hurriedly, knowing perhaps, his cruelty was uncalled for. But that would not keep him from enforcing it repeatedly. He would simply kneel down to an altar, ask for forgiveness from the Lord and his sins would be purged. A twisted sort of cleansing, a hypocrisy Nero reviled.

His cheek was still burning red, a small round dent to where he was hit. The priest’s rings were heavy, you see, especially the ruby one worn on his gangly middle finger. Gold, semi-precious stones, the labor of so many before him, he felt a pang of guilt for his anger because in truth, he was privileged to be working indoors.

Tomorrow he would have to deliver ten sacks of barley, rye and wheat flour to the baron, as well as about fifty stacks of hay. He would have to mount each stack and sack to the broken-down cart the Church was oh so magnanimous in providing. Nero was not concerned about exhaustion though; his strength was compared to that of a dozen healthy men even for a boy his age. He was uncharacteristically muscular for a peasant, his sinews were taut, a body compared to that of a fierce knight even though the closest Nero had found himself to a battle was a tavern fight. One _he_ had caused, to be fair. His body did not help with accounts of him being a fairie child, a demon, whatever it was the villagers called him so Nero made sure his clothes were as thick as he could afford them to be. Last thing he wanted was to give them more excuses to gawk at him.

But the truth of the matter was, Nero was mostly worried about having to deal with the nobility. The lords and ladies caroling in the halls of that gaudy castle in the middle of the field across the village while the rest of them died destitute and in obscurity. He did _not_ do well with authority. Which is why he dreaded using the baron’s water mill whenever the mill at the barn was occupied by the thirty or so serfs who were hungry and fatigued. Regardless, he had no choice, the grains were tax and they had to be delivered by noon tomorrow.

Little was known about the baron himself. He had never left his castle supposedly because of a curse he was afflicted by. Some say he is deformed beyond recognition, a creature so vile and hideous it colored his character, paired with a disease like _phrenesis_ , a frenzy of the mind, which would explain his fits of rage and violence. Others, who claim to have caught a glimpse of him, paint him as a creature ethereal and untethered from the human realm, both man and god. Idle stories, really and because nobody but his closest servants had ever seen him, that fed the local gossip about the man’s identity. Nero called him a looney, a man so paranoid and so afraid of an attempt on his life, he would be willing to endure living life as a recluse. Not that life outside the castle walls was anything exceptional, quite the opposite, but Nero thought a man of his rank could at least travel. He himself had only been to the castle once or twice, at a really young age, to carry grains again, levied as tax by the baron. He scarcely remembers what the inside looks like, he never got that far. Peasants were instructed to leave their goods at the front gate, and they would be ushered inside by the steward or whatever knights were keeping guard at the time. The little he remembers comes from the huge apotropaic statues on either side of the main hall which were visible all the way from the outside of the gate. He couldn’t quite tell what they depicted but one of them was not human. It had a visor-less close helm with horns protruding from each side of its head and an odd-looking sword, unlike anything he’d seen knights carry. It had a narrow and elongated pommel with a yellow ribbon wrapped around it, the blade of the sword looking almost dainty. He did not remember what the other statue looked like however…his impressionable young mind was too fixated on the scarier of the two.

* * *

He set out early at dawn, at the rooster’s third crow, to gather everything he needed to deliver. The cart did not give any signs of giving out yet, and he saw that as a welcome omen that he should be on his way. It was the first time he was sent to deliver the monthly tribute, a tradition long held by the priest’s son. The priest always harbored hopes the baron would catch glimpse of his son, and in order to impress him, he would always dress him in the finest garments. He was a lanky man in his mid-twenties, pale and scrawny, that looked like he was ailed by smallpox, only that was his natural complexion. All in all, he left much to be desired, and the priest was deluding himself with every attempt at improving his appearance. Nero did not hate him, if anything he was much more amicable and kinder than his father. He was simply a man and like any other man in this provincial village, he too was a bit superstitious and scared. The only difference between him and his father was that he truly believed these tales and accosted Nero accordingly. 

After rounding up the last sack, Nero saw the priest’s son approach him, his long tunic dragging clumps of straw and mud behind him. “Will you be joining us for supper?” he asked in his nasally voice.

“Not sure, tell your father I will be back tomorrow morning at the latest.” Nero huffed and slapped a rather large sack of rye flour.

The priest’s son nodded and folded his hands behind his back and looked at him, rather pitifully. “You know Nero, I think you are a good man.”

Nero’s lip curled into an almost-smirk, but he remained silent. “Why thank you, Roland. That’s very nice of you. Is it coin you’re looking for? Because if so, I don’t have any. Your father beat you to it a few days ago, said he needed to borrow some for buying supplies.”

Roland snorted; a rather undignified snort that made him sound like a boy. “You were always quite the jester.”

“That I am. Did you need something? Because I don’t have all day.”

Roland stepped closer, much to Nero’s apprehension. Nero straightened his back to face him and they sat in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other. Roland was wearing a ghastly red felt-hat with a loosely pinned goose feather. Nero was a few feet taller despite his age, and the height difference would probably seem comical to any passerby.

“I am sure you are aware I have been responsible for deliveries to the baron since I was a wee lad.”

Nero nodded, hesitantly.

“And I’m not sure why father chose you this time, after a decade, but this does not bode well. I want you to take me with you.”

Nero laughed, heartily, then without skipping a beat, he started pushing the cart down the path leading to the open fields.

Roland rushed soon after, a sea of expletives following, which would deter Nero from turning back, if anything. “I’ll have you know I have a bag of coin that is yours _only_ if you accept my offer.”

To that, Nero paused, stopping the cart abruptly. “Okay, what’s the catch.” He turned around to face him. “And where would you find a bag of coin in the first place. You haven’t set foot in the fields or done any work for your father. Last I checked the most you’ve worked your tendons is to help you get up from your soft, feather pillow every morning.”

“Well it’s not mine, if you must know.” To which Nero chuckled. _Of course not_.

“A man lent it to me.”

“A loan shark? You know usury is not-“

“Not a loan shark. A man by the name of V.”

“V? Is he not familiar with the rest of the alphabet?”

Well that was an odd name. Mostly because it wasn’t even a name. It was an initial. “And what do you know about this… _V_?”

“Nothing…he was just eager to lend me a bag of coin just to accompany us to the castle. What did you expect, for me to refuse?”

“I suppose not…” Nero trailed off. This was definitely not a good sign. It was already getting too complicated for a tax delivery.

“Oh, look! Here he comes, right on time!”

“Hold on a minute you didn’t say anything about a rendezvous-” He was cut short by the emerging figure of a tall, slim man clad in all black, a cane in his left arm. _A plague doctor? Maybe a widower?_ In any case, an _odd_ attire.

“ _A moth ate words; a marvelous event. I thought it when I heard about that wonder, A worm had swallowed some man’s lay, a thief in darkness had consumed the mighty saying, with its foundation firm. The thief was not one whit the wiser when the ate those words_.”

“Ah. _Saga hwaet ic hatte_ ” murmured Roland.

“A bookworm” Nero blurted, eyes never leaving the stranger’s.

“Well done _Nero_ ” V smiled.


	2. Aspergillum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "a liturgical implement used to sprinkle holy water"
> 
> V is introduced, his intentions or affiliations unknown...Nero ventures out for his delivery only to be met with more obstacles on the way.

“A name…can be a lot of things. It’s a precursor to one’s birth. It defines you. When death comes, he seeks your name.” V paused “It is also the easiest thing to learn in these parts of the kingdom. You...have made quite a _name_ for yourself, Nero”

Nero stood quiet for a while until he unclenched his jaw, his bottom lip quivering for a split second as if still musing on whatever he wanted to say ‘… _What’s with the pun_?’.

V seemed entirely too out of place, Nero thought, and this was coming from _him_. None of the words coming out of his mouth made sense: he was either a crazed soothsayer or a Cassandra in the making.

“My request…is quite simple. I imagine our friend Roland has already paid you the agreed upon sum of 230 pounds and 20 shillings correct?”

If Nero seemed unperturbed before, his mouth was _agape_ now. That was an exorbitant amount of coin for a delivery which was a statutory obligation in the first place. This was all sorts of bizarre and Nero was starting to lose the little patience he usually has.

“Okay enough. That’s enough from the both of you. I should’ve known something was off about this the moment _you_ ” he looked at the priest’s son “came up to me. I am going to deliver these tributes to that godforsaken castle, **alone.** You can try and stop me if you want, these muscles could use a workout.”

Nero cursed and mumbled under his breath, rolling the cart downhill for a few miles before he realized he was nowhere near the village now. Dusk was fast approaching, and the nearest inn would have to do. He had enough coin for one night, minus the ale. He’d have to tough it out.

He pushed the cart in the front facing barn, covering the sacks with a thick piece of clothing and entered the inn. All looks were immediately on him, something he was used to by now. Staring was warranted, force was not. He wasn’t a soldier; he had no experience in war or battles, but he could slice his way through a man if he tried to test him.

“I’d like to use your barn for the night. How much?”

“Whatever for child?” The lady of the inn, a middle-aged woman with sunken eyes and a lined face, chirped.

“I uh…I have important—" he turned around to look at the men he could _feel_ were staring, and they immediately turned to face each other, abashed “—cargo and I’d like to keep an eye on it, if you ..catch my drift”

“Oh, sure sure. No need to tell m’twice. I noticed you the moment you came in, you’re the lad from Fortuna aren’t you?”

“Word sure travels fast. That’d be me, yes.” Nero tugged on his shirt’s sleeves, lowering his face to the counter. “Aren’t you gonna ask me if I’m a fairie creature? Or if I can turn into a goat?”

“Oh, don’t be silly boy. Some folk’ like to exaggerate that’s all. Your mother just gave you a head of ash and eyes of the bluest river. Nothin’ wrong wi’ that”

Nero welcomed the warmth of a kind word. Acts of kindness like hers were few and far in between.

“That’d be 15 shillings for the barn, can I get you anything else?”

Nero pulled out 14 shillings, a stem of rosemary and a few marbles from his pouch and emptied them on the counter, embarrassed at falling short by one shilling. The innkeeper winked at him reassuringly and he smiled in response. This felt good. He wasn’t entirely at home, she wasn’t his mother, and this wasn’t the little hut they’d play hide and seek in, but it was as close as it was going to ever get from now on.

On his way out he noticed the men staring again, but he was in a good mood and he thought he would spare them for once, they didn’t know better.

Only they had other plans.

A man rose from his seat and threw a pint of ale right to Nero’s right side. “Freak!” another yelled.

“Oh dear…” the innkeeper murmured low enough for only herself to hear.

Nero turned around, fists slowly curling into a ball. “You missed—you _cock sucking whoreson_ ” He immediately jumped over the nearest table, drinks flying over the men, connecting his fist with the offender’s face. By that point he had roused the whole inn’s tavern into a frenzy, the men brawling for the sole purpose of getting their blood pumping, the smell of sweat and ale and musk in the air. Nero’s one eye was already bruised, purple and blue and every color there was, and the man unfortunate enough to provoke him was inches away from getting his head dunked into a barrel of potent aleberry.

“Hope you like spices _you_ _arsehole_ —” Nero barked, effectively pushing the man in, just enough so bubbles could rise from the ale from his frantic attempts at breathing. He pulled him out, pushing him into the wall with his elbow connecting to his throat “You have anything else to spew at me you _shitbag_? Because I got a whole lot more where that came from.”

The man whimpered and covered his face with his free arm, the one that was intact at least, and Nero dropped him like one of the sacks of barley flour he was carrying. In all honesty he weighed less. Nero wiped the sweat of his forehead and turned to find the inn in disarray, men still tussling with each other. He quietly took his leave, hiding under the cart he had left in the barn, for good measure. He waited them out, one by one the men left the tavern bellowing, rubbing their beer bellies, some even singing some merry tune.

He slowly fell asleep to the voices of men fading in the distance till the sun landed on his lids, alerting him to the change into daytime. He opened his eyes to a pair of sheep observing him with interest and the feeling of one of them licking his exposed shins. He jerked upwards in surprise, only to hit his head on the cart’s underside. It earned him a small bump on his forehead to match his bruised eye. This delivery had proved to be more life-threatening than the black death.

When he finally got to his senses, he picked up the cart, slowly rolling it backwards and onto the main road. He made sure to avoid the innkeeper, keeping in mind he was responsible for last night’s incident. He would have to make it up to her one day. “ _The Merry Reed Inn_ ” read the sign above the entrance. Well it sure was not merry accounting for the lot that frequented them. The exact opposite of a merry bunch, Nero thought.

On the main road, one of the signs pointed to “Geryon Keep” which had to be the castle he was looking for. In truth he had not really come this way in his 18 years of living: he barely remembered what the castle looked like save for the statue that had etched itself in his memory like the dried up ale at the bottom of a barrel you can’t seem to wash off.

* * *

The sun was scorching hot and reflected on the blanched sacks, making the journey even more unbearable than it already was.

When he finally reached his destination, the front gate of the keep, he was met with Roland, pacing up and down the sides of the mote and V, solemnly stretched across the stone wall with his cane resting next to him. They hadn’t noticed him, yet, and Nero cursed his luck for using all his strength for the fight of the night before. He would have to hold them off with words. Or try to, at least.

V was the first one to spot him, and upon recognizing him, he removed himself from the wall and approached Nero and the cart slowly, Roland speeding after him.

“Greetings. We thought we’d meet you here since you weren’t too fond of travelling company”

“Yeah well I’m not too fond of company _period_ , had enough of it last night to last me a fortnight or more”

“Is that how you got that injury?” V asked in such a peculiar manner, as if it wasn’t obviously stated.

“ _How do y’think_?”

V smirked, sardonically even, one could say. “Well as long as you and the promised goods are alright”

Nero huffed at that. “Yeah as you can see—” He turned to look at the cart, pulling off the cloth “everything’s right here—”

Nero had gotten tired of surprises. He was met with only 4 out of the original 10 bags of flour and a half-eaten loaf of sourdough that added insult to injury rather than make up for the theft. He remained silent for a few minutes, eyes shut tight and head curved upwards, as if pleading for a God to end his misery. He clasped his palms and rested them on top of the remaining sacks.

The other two were similarly gaping at the cart, neither able to say a word.

Roland spoke first, reluctant in voicing what he was about to say. “This has never happened before…how are we—” he looked at Nero “how are we going to tell father?”

“No.” Nero shot him down immediately. “He’s not going to hear about this. You wanna know how I know?” Roland gulped, audibly. “ _I know_ because we’re gonna go in that damned castle, we’re gonna unload the sacks and cover them with the cloth. Then, we’re gonna make like my gran and slip away as quietly as possible. We’ll be gone by the time they notice.”

V observed Nero, that damned smile always present on his bony face. “I admire your tenacity, Nero. But you’re a fool if you think they’re going to let us walk away like that. Allow me to elaborate—”

“Oh, I’m sure you will” Nero snarked.

“The process is as goes. We enter the castle with the cart and the remaining goods. The guards approach us, I distract them at the best of my abilities while you sneak through the back and obtain whatever you find that resembles flour. We replace the missing tribute, just in time to head back to the village.”

Nero’s facial expressions had changed about a myriad times before a grin settled on his face. He was slowly but surely starting to like V.

With lady luck on their side they ventured forth, the front gate keepers stopping them and asking about their purpose of visit. After a few minutes of V’s persuasive skills, or what Nero referred to it in his head as ‘ _bullshitting_ ’, they passed through the main courtyard for the second act of their plan.

Nero slithered through the narrow arches to the right, leading to the stables while the other two had effectively spotted the group of guards breaking in front of the main doors. The castle itself was maze-like with all the various paths in each side of the walls, but the stables, which were loosely connected to the main garden were something else entirely. Nero was taken aback and had to catch his breath momentarily.

The only sort of nature he had ever seen was the washed out yellow of wheat fields and the occasional greenery of the forest. This garden looked like the biblical Eden. He wagered there was something sinister lurking behind these trees too.

There, in the middle of the garden, was a figure laying on a marble bench, underneath a luscious arbor. A book was laid flat on their face, shielding them from the sun, and the only discernible features he could make out were a pair of pale hands and gold and silver adornments over a long navy-blue petticoat. A noble, most likely. Nero scrunched his nose at the thought, and the previously idyllic Eden had been ruined forever.

He continued his way to the stables, by chance stumbling across 3 sacks of…whatever it was it would have to do. He wasted no time in picking them up and hauling them with one big scoop over his shoulders. He thought he’d mouse about, see if there’s anything of interest but it was a time sensitive plan and he didn’t want to risk it.

Nero was looking down, the neatly put-together cobblestone paths almost making him dizzy, as he hurriedly made his way to the front gate. To his dismay a guard caught sight of him. He yelled after him, which made Nero gather his pace. The paths were endless, and he was sure he was going to get lost any second now. There were lines of armor to his left, standing portentously, like they were looking down on him, like he was some kind of petty thief. He was still walking fast, running at this point, until he crashed into one of the guards. The sacks of flour he dropped had spilled over the stone and Nero’s eyes were wide open—he was terrified. The guard was mouthing something, he couldn’t tell from the half open visor of his helmet, but everything was silent. The only thing he could hear was his chest pounding. There was an overwhelming feeling of shame washing over him, like someone had dropped liquid fire on him. It was slowly engulfing him.

After that everything was a blur. He woke up to a well-lit dungeon, he must have been locked up in one of the watch towers. His head was throbbing, and he made no attempts to stand up. He only raised his arms to look at his hands, bringing them close to his face. They were scraped: minute abrasions leaking small droplets of blood. He wiped his face, smearing some of the blood across his lips and cheekbones. It had been a long two days.

Nero rose slowly, balancing himself on the window’s steel bars. He was _really_ high up. He could see the courtyard and _half_ the kingdom from this tiny hole in the wall. The sun was reflected on a small figure that was hurriedly making its way to the main hall from the courtyard. It was a male, armored figure. He seemed rather large and imposing, even from where Nero was standing, but not in an awkward way. He was graceful, even with his frantic footing. He vanished after a while and Nero looked around his cell for anything that could help. Poking his head through the bars, he could see, at the end of the long rows of empty cells, a ruined portrait. It had a large gash where there used to sit a man, whose hair was as white as snow. Like his. The rest of him was tattered, and Nero wondered what he had done to warrant such a strong aversion from whoever did this to him.

Of all the people he expected to see emerging from the shadows, next to where Nero’s gaze was fixed, V was not one of them.

He sauntered quietly to his cell, cane hanging loosely to his side, and unlocked his cell door with a bulky looking key. Nero wanted to speak, he had so many questions. He wanted to apologize, to explain, to argue. _Nothing came out_. It was probably because V looked somber, more so than usual. No smile on his face, no smart sounding retort. His lips were a thin line: he seemed pensive. Nero followed after him, both spending a few minutes in excruciating silence. The light coming in through the tinted glass windows of the castle halls danced on the elaborately patterned carpets donning the floors. Nero was lost in thought, entranced by the soft luminous colors. He almost fell into V who had stopped in front of a menacing doorway, his right hand raised, instructing him to stand still.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” a deep, muffled voice was heard coming from the other side of the door. The whimpering that followed was Roland’s.

“V…” Nero breathed heavily “ _Just what the hell did we get ourselves into_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only hope the story so far is flowing well because God knows I have too many plot points to put down and my head is occupied by one big red inflatable air dancer.


	3. Melchizedek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My King Is Righteousness"

_Snow white hair and faint light gray brows. Here, by the temple. An incision here should do it._

Nero entered through the door. A large throne stood proudly in the middle of the room, with countless of marble pillars surrounding it. In the throne stood the figure he saw earlier, clad in a silver shining armor. The helm covered most his face, apart from his eyes which seemed to reflect the light coming in from the windows. In front of it stood Roland, on his knees, his felt hat covering his mouth.

_That’s impossible_. _Apply more pressure—you are a medicine student, by Jove._

The figure turned its head to where Nero and V stood.

_This blade has cut through skin tougher than a child’s. Don’t be ridiculous. Give me it._

His eyes were chilling. Cold.

_No. It cannot be._

He removed his helmet, lifting his head in a swift movement, revealing a chiseled chin and jawline. His hair was slicked back, a medium length mane of ivory mixed with gray tones. Nero remembered the painting he had seen in the tower. He instinctively touched the back of his head, running his fingers through his short ashen hair.

“ _This_ —” He rose from the throne lowering the helmet to his side, placing it against his hip “is _Nero_?” his voice was guttural, low and controlled. “Well…color me surprised. Ashen haired indeed.”

Nero frowned but knew better than to address nobility directly. Instead he approached them, circling around the throne to stand behind Roland. He lifted him up from the overstuffed shoulder patches of his tunic in one swift motion, pushing him to the side dismissively. Nero wasn’t going to say a word, he was going to let his body do the talking.

He _really_ did not do well with authority.

“Nero—” Roland whimpered, groveling on the ground “This- _this is the baron_.”

“I know.” Nero’s eyes were narrowed, almost a slit now. He was gauging the man’s every movement like an animal hunting its prey. Both were. They were acknowledging each other in a way.

_This is not a child_. _Valdes by the name of Jove this is not a child- We must turn back. Burn it. It’s been touched by the devil. ‘Father who art in heaven—deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom—'_

“Quite a storm welling up inside of you. Whatever for…” the baron grinned.

“You know damn well why.” Nero pulled up his sleeves, rolling them over his elbows; his second act of aggression within the hour. “You lock me up in a dungeon. You torment this man; you toy with him to gratify some twisted need for superiority—”

The baron was paying close attention, his lip curled upwards in amusement. “You stole from me.” Nero stopped at that, abruptly, biting his lip. “My men caught you red handed with sacks of flour, making your way out the keep.”

“That—”

“I am not finished.” The baron took a few steps forward, descending a small staircase that led to a long, seemingly never-ending burgundy carpet. He came to a halt in front of Nero, towering above him. He must’ve been at least 7 feet tall. “Give me one good reason _not_ to kill you and feed your corpse to the dogs.” Nero’s face was reflected on his breastplate. He could see his own wild expression clearly on the smooth silver surface. The baron circled around him, eyes never leaving his. “To speak nothing of the disrespect you just showed addressing me. Your insolence will cost you. I am of two minds thus far—” he trailed off “I can either torture your loved ones or be merciful and gift you a swift end.”

“My parents are dead; I have no family. So good luck with that.”

The baron admired his confidence, the way his eyes gleamed proudly, and his chest seemed ever so slightly puffed.

_Mother_. _Mother where are we going? **Hush now Vergil, it’s not far**. Mother why are they chasing us? What’s wrong? **Nothing is wrong dear boy**. **You haven’t done anything wrong**. **Humans fear whatever they don’t understand. They’re complicated creatures by nature. Now you must listen to me very carefully. You are different, Vergil. You do not feel pain like humans do. You will not bleed red like those around you. In your veins you share your father’s blood. You must never tell anyone who you are.** Who am I mother? **Oh God they’re coming-Hide—!**_

“Are you familiar with the biblical story of Mephistopheles, Nero?” the baron interjected.

“Read some of the bible, yeah.” Nero mocked, still unsure where this was going.

The baron walked towards the throne again and placed the helm on the seat’s cushion. “They say that he was cast away in the Underworld, along with the Fallen ones, his army of demons” he uttered, slowly, then removed his two spaulders placing them next to his helm. “Condemned to an eternity of hell fire and agony. ‘ _Hell hath no limits,_ _nor is circumscribed in one self place’_ : they were forced to endure suffering wherever they went. They represented hell in body and spirit, _that_ was their punishment.” He followed with his breastplate and then his cuisses and greaves, revealing a long dark coat. “I believe Hell is real.”

Nero chuckled. “I have to admit, maybe I truly am a heathen for not taking this seriously, but you sound like a false messiah more than anything.”

“Nero, ask yourself why you’ve been ostracized by the community your whole life.” There was no room for witty remarks now. “Did you really never question why you were exceptionally strong, or why you were brought to this part of the world on the blackest night of the season?”

The muted Roland had now stood up, taking several backwards steps. “I knew it…. I knew you were a devil! Fie on you!”

The baron raised his hand and a handful of guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him further in the castle as he screamed. “Don’t hurt him—” Nero gasped.

“I won’t. Not _bad_ at least.” He smiled, staring down at him from above the steps.

“Leave him out of this! He did nothing wrong, I’m the one who stole those sacks and you know it.”

“ _How curious_... You protect the ignorant and intolerant. _For what_? You and I both know he would sell you off as an oddity for less than what you stole.”

Nero remained silent. “You’re not human. You can feel it. You’ve felt it your whole life.” The baron continued.

Nero was far too obstinate to accept a stranger’s interpretation of who he is. He only felt different because _others_ made him feel so. “ _What am I then_?”

The baron descended again, removing his coat and letting it drop in place. Underneath the long garments lay a taut physique, his arms muscular from deltoids to biceps and forearms. The veins almost visibly engorged over his pale complexion. He was truly terrifying, in a sublime way. The awe you feel when you are met with a black storm while standing on the shore. You feel sheltered just enough to admire its ravaging beauty, but tremble in fear knowing if you do not reach higher altitude soon it will swallow you whole.

The hall was empty now, save for V, who was sitting by idly, observing the scene unfolding. Nero had the underlying impression that V was somehow connected to the baron. He seemed unperturbed by everything he was saying. ‘ _Probably where he got his bullshit way of talking from_ ’ he thought.

“I would hate to spoil the fun of discovering your heritage, Nero. Sooner or later the truth will be revealed to you. For now, I merely presented you with food for thought.”

“That’s it? You’re just gonna let me go? _After everything_?”

“In fact, I can even arrange for V to ensure your safe return back home.”

“ _Bullshit_. I’m not buying it.” Nero spat. “You’ve been sitting here for an hour blabbering about hell and demons, there has to be a reason behind it.”

“Well are you determined to find out?” The baron taunted. “But be wary, _it might kill you_.” He smiled again; the same sardonic smile V would oftentimes have plastered across his face. “Until we meet again—” he dismissed them both, a group of guards entering through two archways from the left and right. “Oh and Nero—” Nero cocked his head to the side, not even fully turning to face him “give my regards to your uncle.”

V lowered his cane, tapping the floor twice, and they were out the main doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V and Vergil's relationship is a lot different here than in-game and its based on a theory I had before it came out 👀 Also yeah we're entering full bible-study territory with the lore Here

**Author's Note:**

> holy fuck I haven't posted in AGES but I am back with a vengeance. Guess who's a very stereotypical English major. It's me. I am. I'm mostly versed in 16th century history/literature but I have a soft spot for the Middle Ages. Any anachronisms are both accidental but also me trying to make things interesting, peppering in a few random #justmiddleagesthings/15th-16thcenturythings if you may. Also y'know some references might French, Italian, English, let's just see this as a Pan European society (the location is loosely based on Britain though, if you're a history buff or major don't crucify me bls). All in all I hope you all enjoy! (I don't *hard* proofread my works, if there's any lapses in grammar/tense disagreements/typos, pretend you do not See them)
> 
> *Saga hwaet ic hatte= Say what I am called. (A literal riddle I pulled from the Exeter Book c. 975, in translation)


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